Over a year has gone by since I spilled my life out here, here's a not so brief synopsis:

- I walked out of Centerfolds after giving them 10 years of my life. After months of empty promises and the lack of respect in the workplace I decided to move on with my life. I had been living under a haze filled with drugs, easy money and late nights. Life was passing me by and I had no idea until I stepped out the front door for the last time.

- Then, I started working at Lucky's Lounge doing the door. It paid the bills, let me clear my head a little and led me to start a, albeit brief, relationship with a wonderful woman. I left the Lucky's Lounge after a few months just 'coz I was done being a doorguy. After years of being yelled at, getting into fights with strangers and various other disgusting human interactions, I was all set.

I'm back from my 'nap'. A long assed nap, in which I had the most vivid dream!

I dreamt that for the past ten years I was working in this amazing strip-club, surrounded by the most beautiful women, money was flying everywhere and being treated like a king where ever I went. This dream was so realistic and was richly detailed, I felt like I was truly living it.

... but like I said, I just woke up.

I'm looking around my room, everything still looks the same. Everything feels normal. It's raining out and my Halloween costume, from a couple of nights ago, is crumpled up on the floor. I can hear the TV blaring in the next room, along with the snoring roommate. Everything is normal, right?

For starters, I have to apologize to those that have been putting up with lack of posts and also to the voices in my head, who have been screaming at me for months now.

"Why aren't you writing?!""WHY BOTHER CALLING YOURSELF A WRITER?!""Who are you hiding from?!""WHAT THE FUCK ARE YOU DOING?!""STOP lying TO yourself!!!""make me more food...""do you really like her or are you just in it for the ass?""ASS!!""Don't forget that whiskey is your friend!""When are you taking us out?!"

... and the voices go on and on, sometimes to the point of insanity, it seems. Overall, the voices speak the truth (as they almost always do). I have been hiding. Again. Hiding from my thoughts, from the voices in my head and from the words. Rather than going onto an apologetic rant, I'll stop this here and say: I apologize for the lack of words. I apologize to those that actually read my words. Lastly, I have to apologize to the voices in my head. There, apologies over.

__________________________________

Tuesday 10:13pm - Dec. 29

I've been sitting here and rereading all of my past posts and various short stories and such, trying to garner some form of inspiration so that I could write again. Inspiration is way too good at hide and seek, that's is all I have come up with so far.

It has been about 9 hours since I started all that and I have just finally started putting these words together. A bump here and a few shots of whiskey here also and the voices in my head STILL have not stopped yelling at me. I want to say that I have been in a rut, maybe I have been, maybe I have not. I'm a little dizzy from all the thoughts that I have been trying to process and all the shots that I have been drinking.

Some days I feel like my brain is going to explode from all the crazy ideas that flow through. Then I get distracted by life. This battle is repeated on a daily basis. It all came to a point last night, when I was reading in bed. Currently, I'm reading a collection of short stories by Neil Gaiman, a book by the Dalai Lama on metaphysics and religion and a book on human idiosyncrasies by Malcolm Gladwell. After a few hours of playing "look how smart I am because I'm reading multiple books" I stopped for a cigarette and drink...

... Standing on my porch, wearing the new winter hat my mother got for me, and staring at the moonlit sky, I counted seven shooting stars crossing the sky. I smiled to myself as one of the voices in my head whispered, "Hey, those were seven shooting stars, you can make seven wishes. It's in the shooting star rule book!" I lit another cigarette and tried to tap into my inner child for those seven wishes. I don't really know how long I was out there for. I had no measure of time except for the number of cigarettes I sucked down, which was three. I don't really recall if I did make any wishes, since I think my inner child was getting beaten up by one of the other voices in my head. Either way, maybe it was because I was a little low on oxygen, or I was staring at the moon for too long, but I walked back indoors with a quiet feeling. The type of quiet you sense when everyone around is sleeping and quietly dreaming. The type of quiet people look for when they go out for long walks. The comforting quiet of being lost in one's own head. The type of quiet, I realized, I have not felt in a while. I crawled back into bed and I felt like I could write some notes down (I keep a book next to my bed for those crazy ideas that seem to pop up at inopportune times) but I failed. The frustrated voices in my head started getting louder again and I lost all sense of quiet and calmness...

I woke up today with an unimaginable amount of sweat covering my body, a clear memory of some ridiculous dreams that I had and a weird need to finally write something down. After the usual waking procedures, I planted myself in front of my computer, thinking that I was going to spew forth all these great words and ideas. Maybe even write about my dreams from the night before. Hoping that I had finally unleashed my sleeping muse.

Nope. Of course it wasn't that easy. It never is.

Several agonizing hours of writing and deleting. Several hours of writing and throwing out pieces of paper. Several hours of texting and cable TV distractions... and I couldn't put a few words together without freaking out and deleting them.

I wanted, so badly, to be swept in the frenzy of writing. To finish the 5 different short stories that I started weeks ago, but never finished. I wanted to tap into the creative vein of putting words together and unleashing some sort of written creation. But wanting and doing are two different monsters that apparently do not like to work together.

I've been pacing back and forth from my room and the liquor cabinet and the computer. Driving myself, and my roommates, crazy. The whole time wondering, seriously wondering what has been missing. Or even, why I can't bring myself to do what I, seemingly, am driven to do. After a few more hours of pacing and drinking and after a PBS episode on Human Evolution, I realized what kind of monkey has been on my back this whole time.

Fear.

Yep. Just like that, it came to me. Now the process moves on to, why? Why am I scared? What am I scared of? Why? Why? Why?

I made a few notes, not really knowing what I was going to get from it, but sometimes it's a lot easier to visualize a solution to a problem when thoughts are laid out before you. So, I went back to my previous posts and went back to my unfinished short stories. Trying to apply some sort of C.S.I. logic, of sorts, trying to see a pattern in my writing and in my thinking. I think I ended up confusing myself for a few hours.

After a few more agonizing hours, inspiration came from one of my Writer's Handbooks.

Quoted from Fiction Writer's workshop:"Ultimately, write any way that gives you a sense of freedom. What a teacher and a fellow workshopper might discourage as a vice might, through practice, become a virtue."

From rereading my past ramblings and various stories, I realized that I wanted to be a type of writer that I am obviously not (yet). The fear being derived from the inevitable failure of not becoming this idealized writer that I want to be. I wanted to be something without working hard at it. The fear of disappointment from those that read my work and mainly, from myself, since I am definitely my worst critic (and best fan at the same time).

With that thought, I wrote, in big red ink: WHAT KIND OF WRITER ARE YOU?

... and I've been staring at those words for a few hours now. I don't really know how to answer that. In fact, the only answer I came up with, is that I know what kind of writer I DO NOT want to be... another rambling fool on Livejournal.

Armed with this insight, I am making a promise (to myself): I promise to stop doubting myself and to stop being a whiny bastard. I'm going to write and write and write until something awesome comes out. My talk of 'lack of focus' and such is going to end, as this is going to be my focus. I'm finally going to give a reason as to why the voices in my head are constantly yelling and as to what they are yelling about.

I'm still scared. I'm afraid that I'll fail. I'm afraid that no matter how hard I try, nothing is ever going to satisfy whatever need I have inside me. I'm afraid that I'm going to run out of outlets for the mess of thoughts living in my brain.

I really want to be a writer. I don't know what kind, but I guess writing on livejournal is a good a place as any, to start things off. I do want to live within the freedom of the written word. It's not because I don't have the focus, I've just been scared of what I might find when I do reach the proverbial 'focus' that I've been looking for... or something like that.

I want to thank Josh and you others for constantly yelling at me to write more.

I give you my written and spoken Word, that I am going to write. A lot.

Be ready for it... because I, sure as hell, am not. But I'm willing to actually move forward with this...

The thermometer hit 90 degrees this past Tuesday. Phenomenal. Members of Team Tuesday got me out of bed early and we were headed towards Winthrop Beach. Armed with booze, beer and bathing suits our day was looking up.

Beers were popped and the frigid waters of the Northeast Territory were tested. Definitely nothing like a day at the beach, especially during the week when the rest of the population were stuck at work. Gotta love working the nightlife.

After getting bored of watching the two beached whales of human beings that were basking in the sun, I turned to watch this utterly cute little toddler-girl walk from the shoreline, to her pile of beach toys. She had ridiculously long blond hair, for a child of something no more than 3-4 years old. It was not her hair that really caught my attention though, but the level of happiness her smile conveyed as she ambled along the sand, carrying her little beach shovel. I get jealous of kids when I see how happy they are in their ignorance. I sometimes want that back, don't you?

After an hour watching half naked bodies and playing catch (rather awkwardly) and drinking more beers, I smoked my favorite green herb and laid down for a nap.

The sun was burning my eyes through my eyelids as I drifted off. Behind me, sounds of the Beach Lullaby could be faintly heard: the sound of waves slapping the beach combined with the faraway voices of kids playing in the water. I quickly drifted off into a sandy nap.

******

... the rest of the beach day was rather uneventful. I felt like I unplugged my brain, albeit for a few hours, but it was refreshing. Combined with the frigid temperatures of the water and the delicious beers helped me relax. Something I haven't been able to do for a while now.

On the ride back towards Boston, I recalled a daydream I had on the beach. My mind was still hazy from the sun, smoke and sand but I had a smile on my face as I slowly remembered the face in my day dream:

The face belonged to an old friend who lost his life a long time ago, in doing so my own was spared. I realized I haven't thought about him in a long time.I was smiling because in my day dream I was reliving a moment a happy moment with my old friend. Something I haven't been able to do in a long time. Whenever I think of him, all the bad memories flood my head and I end up walking around in a haze of depression. However, today was different and the happy recollection I had made me feel really good.

I think I can finally close that particular chapter of my life and completely move on.

The air was warm and languid. I was in the company of good people. The sun was slowly setting and it cast a rather lazy and sleepy shadow over the city. The warmth I felt was not just from the mild sun burn and buzz of the alcohol, but the warm sense of understanding and closure.

RIP old friend. I thank you everyday I wake up, if it was not for you I would not have been able to enjoy this day at the beach.

Tags:

. allergies are brutal.. boo the allergies.. building a fort to block the allergies.. curry. curry is freakin' delicious and hot.. Megan Fox is also delicious and hot.. Been thinking about unrequited love.. Starting drinking absinthe again, connection?. Hooray for the sun again.